Negotiations in a Graveyard
by YnitOcelot
Summary: Out of action due to a stab wound, Doyle has the misfortune to be in the wrong place at the wrong time and is taken hostage inside a church. Part 2/2
1. Chapter 1

**Negotiations in a Graveyard**

Part One

* * *

The day dawned cold and misty. Ray Doyle pulled on his running trainers with an air of resignation and expectation. It was going to be his first proper run since he'd been injured on duty a few weeks ago. A sudden sharp pain knifed through his ribs like… well, like a knife. Sliding his hand under his shirt, Doyle ran his fingers down the raised slash, wincing slightly at the sensitivity of the surrounding tissue. He had been lucky, it had been a deep cut and he'd been left to die in the mire of a back alley covered in bruises from a beating. A passer-by had found him lying there, too hurt to move, and had called an ambulance and done what he could to stanch the bleeding. He'd passed out on the way to the hospital and it had been several hours before he was conscious long enough to give his name and other details. Doyle still remembered Bodie's face when he finally arrived, about half an hour after CI5 was notified of his whereabouts. Angry, worried and pale, he'd looked like he wanted to kill Doyle himself, and had immediately started lecturing him on his disregard for calling backup. Doyle had just shrugged it off – not wanting to start a proper argument – but Bodie had been still seething when he left.

After being kept in for observation for a few days Bodie had driven him home, and then the troubles began.

Bodie had been severely reluctant to let his partner out of his sight, and Doyle – already irritable from the pain and general feeling of being betrayed by someone he trusted – had not responded well to being mollycoddled. At first it had just been some cutting remarks and tense apologies before, a few days ago, Bodie had reignited the argument about backup.

"I don't need a keeper Bodie!"

"I think you do! How many more times do I have to tell you? If you're meeting someone – call. It. In!"

"Like you always do!" Doyle had countered, fury dancing along the edge of his words. Bodie rounded on his partner, glaring at him.

"I'm not the one who ends up in hospital all the time! Jesus, Doyle, do you do it on purpose?"

"Of course not!" Doyle yelled back. "Do think I'm some manic who gets off on pain?"

"Yeah, I'm just waiting for you to start cutting yourself or something." Bodie stepped forwards, "You keep going like this you're going to be no good for CI5, or anything else for that matter, see?" Doyle had made a move and was now crouched over, gripping his ribs, a strained expression on his face. "Where are your pain pills?" He asked, putting his hand on Doyle's shoulder, trying to guide him to the sofa.

"Gerroff Bodie!" Doyle wrenched away from his partner, anger clear in his eyes. "I can get them meself! I don't need your help!"

"Doyle…"

"Just leave me alone, alright? Just get out!" Doyle turned his back.

"Fine!" Bodie yelled. He turned on his heel and stormed out, slamming the door behind him. Doyle didn't even turn around or jump at the sound. He waited for a few minutes, listening, before he realised that Bodie wasn't coming back. Well, that was what he wanted, wasn't it?

Doyle's stomach clenched momentarily before he got hold of himself. The few days on his own had been good, and he hadn't missed Bodie's constantly overbearing mothering. Distracting himself from the hurt expression that he'd last seen Bodie with, he glanced out of the window and tried to gauge whether he should take the heavy jumper or the light one.

* * *

Doyle jogged through past the masses of graves, his breath puffing out in front of him. He was struggling more than he wanted to admit, he and Bodie would do a five mile run without breaking a sweat, but Doyle was slowly realising that he was going to have to settle for at least two less than that. The fog was still heavy but he was sure it had thinned out a bit in the last thirty minutes. The graveyard sulked in a sullen silence – just like him, he though wryly – and, though the fog made it hard to judge, it seemed completely deserted. For a brief moment Doyle almost wished Bodie was here, but then he remembered why he wasn't and sped up. He could manage on his own, thank you very much. He didn't need someone always watching him like a hawk because they thought he couldn't be trusted to do a task without hurting himself! Damnit, Bodie was a good friend and the best partner he'd ever had, but he could just be such a…

Abruptly Doyle slowed his pace, the end of the sentence completely forgotten. He wasn't sure what it was that had distracted him but his natural curiosity was tugging at his brain. Slowly he turned and surveyed the graves by the path. A sound make his copper senses prick up and he began to pick his way carefully towards it.

Skirting around a large memorial Doyle saw what it was he heard. There was a group of three men bending over something and a very large Rottweiler keeping watch. Doyle tensed slightly when he saw it. He and dogs had never really mixed – especially ones that looked like they could tear you apart in one bite. The hairs on Doyle's neck began to rise and instinctively knew that something wasn't right about this picture. They could've just been paying their respects to a deceased friend or relative but somehow he knew this wasn't the case. This may have been supported by their secretive attitude and the general feeling of being up-to-no-good. Doyle was about to back away – perfectly aware of his unarmed and damaged state – when one of the men shifted enough for Doyle to see his face. Immediately his stomach did a flip and he had to supress a gasp.

Aiden Murdoch: arms dealer and terrorist with IRA sympathies. The very man that CI5 had been looking for in the past month. He was notoriously hard to find and suspected to be the brains behind quite a few huge bombings and arms shipments… and Doyle had found him by accident. Now he needed to get out of here and phone it in. As he turned to leave the huge dog suddenly stiffened and barked.

Doyle broke into a run; there was a shout that sounded very much like 'get him!' but he certainly wasn't hanging about to confirm this. Adrenaline gifted him with wings and he tore across the graveyard. If he'd been in peak physical condition he might have made it to the high wall. As it was the Rottweiler was faster. With a growl it leapt for Doyle's back, knocking the slender ex-policeman to the ground, pinning him. Doyle curled up automatically as he landed, trying to protect his throat and face. Sharp claws dug into his shoulder warningly, the jaws of the dog were just centimetres from his face. A low growl rumbled out. Doyle stopped struggling. He saw the men running up, flattened as he was on the wet grass, and heard one of them say, "Don't move if you know what's good for you curly, or else Grenade will take your throat out." Doyle gave a half-hearted chuckle.

"Good name for him." There was a click of a pistol and then the cold metal was jammed against his head. Murdoch's Irish lilt drifted into the air as he crouched beside the agent.

"You've got a sense of humour. I always like a man who who's got a bit of wit – don't I boys? Now," he pushed the pistol more painfully against Doyle's head, "if we let you stand, you don't do anything stupid… alright? I'll shoot you in the head or, even better, let Grenade really have a field day. Am I clear?" Doyle hesitated, "am I clear?" Seeing no way out except cooperation, Doyle nodded. "Call him off, Charlie." A burly blond-haired man whistled expertly. Grenade released his hold and trotted over to his master. Murdoch grabbed Doyle's jumper and yanked him to his feet, the gun held against the nape of his neck. "Put your hands on your head and don't bother shouting… no one will hear you."

Doyle was pushed forwards, very much aware of his position. Grenade flanked him on one side and Murdoch had a firm hold on his shoulder, the gun making escape impossible. The other man had gathered up the weapons and following behind, silent as the graves around them. Doyle glanced around desperately, trying to think of a plan. The graveyard wall was too high for him to scramble over in time. The gate was too far away. The fog obscured him from any witnesses who could call the police. He was unarmed, breathless and slightly confused as to why he was still alive. Whether he would be alive for much longer was another question entirely.

Quickly his captors hustled him up the path and into the church itself. Murdoch shoved him forwards into the aisle and Doyle had to grab onto a pew to stop himself from falling. Spinning around, he saw one of the men shutting the door firmly and locking it. "Who are you? What do you want with me?" Doyle demanded, playing the civilian card for all he was worth. Murdoch gave him a smile and gestured with his weapon.

"That's for me to know and you not to find out, curly." His tone was friendly and conversational but Doyle wasn't fooled for a minute. Almost anyone else would've been however; Murdoch wasn't a big man in girth or stature – everything from his green eyes and crew-cut dark hair to his casual dress sense just said average, that this was a man you would pass in the street without even looking at him once. "Now, you just be a good boy and we might let you go," he pointed to the altar at the front of the church, indicating that he wanted Doyle to walk up there. When he had Doyle where he wanted him he ordered, "Search him." Doyle gave an inaudible groan as Charlie pulled his wallet out of his trouser pocket and flipped it open.

"We've hit the jackpot boss, curly here is CI5!" Murdoch spun on his heel and stared at Doyle in surprise. Doyle gave him a defiant glare back. A slow smile crept over the terrorist's face and he climbed up the steps so he was level with his captive.

"In another life you should've been an actor, curly. Now what shall we do with you?"

"Kill 'im," one of the men muttered. "CI5 is always bad news, boss," he directed his gun at Doyle, "Where's your partner? You lot always seem to come in twos. Where is 'e?"

"Not here, Benedict, or else we would know about it by now," Murdoch said tiredly. "He's off-duty."

"'Ow do you know?"

"CI5 are very keen on their guns, and he's unarmed."

"Then what are we going to do?" Charlie asked.

"You could let me go," Doyle offered. Murdoch laughed.

"You're a funny man, curly." He opened his mouth to say something else when there was a sudden hammering on the door. The terrorists moved quickly, Charlie ducked behind one of the pews, his gun raised, Grenade beside him. Benedict took up position on the other side in a similar stance and Murdoch seized Doyle and forced him down, holding the gun to his head. Nothing moved inside the church and Doyle shut his eyes as his ribs screamed at him.

The frantic banging continued and a voice cried, "Murdoch! For God's sake, let me in!"

"Sheffield!" Benedict looked back at Murdoch, waiting for permission. Murdoch nodded. Crouching low he crept up to the doors and unlocked it. Quickly he opened it enough to yank the man through. Sheffield stumbled and tripped, gasping hard.

"What happened?" Murdoch demanded, not relinquishing his grip on Doyle, "Where's McNeil?"

"Police… got him, shot… him, they're after… after me," Sheffield managed between sucking gulps of air.

"You led them here!" Murdoch yelled, "you idiot!" Sheffield cringed backwards, hands covering his face.

"I'm sorry!"

"Too late for that now, get a weapon… they'll be here in a moment and you," he glanced about and inspiration seemed to strike, "look like you're going to be useful after all. Get moving."

* * *

Bodie's R/T crackled into life. Not taking his eyes off the road he snatched it up just before Murphy could. "3.7."

"Bodie, Murphy," Cowley's voice cracked out of the device, "get over to St Eugene church in Romford, Murdoch and his crew have initiated a hostage situation."

Bodie handed the R/T over to Murphy, who asked, "How many?"

"Just the one so far, so get over here!"

"Yes, sir!" Bodie floored the accelerator and spun round the roundabout. Murphy grabbed the A-Z from the glove department and started leafing through it hurriedly. Suddenly he stopped and looked over at Bodie. "Isn't that near Doyle's flat?" Bodie grunted the affirmative. "What's the bet he'll be on the scene already?" Bodie gave a fleeting frown.

"He's supposed to be recovering."

"When isn't he?"

"Just shut up Murphy." The force behind the statement was enough for Murphy to do what his temporary partner said.

"Bodie, Murphy, took you long enough," Cowley barked as the two agents run up. Bodie looked around them. A barricade had been constructed around the church, police cars were parked everywhere and several CI5 agents were ordering the police about.

"We were coming from further away," Murphy replied reproachfully. Cowley sighed.

"What's the situation then, sir?" Bodie said.

Gesturing to the church, Cowley began to explain, "Four men including Murdoch, one hostage and an arsenal of weapons. They shot at the officers when they arrived at the scene so we've evacuated everyone in a two mile radius. Plans are of the church are on the way as we speak."

"Planned?" asked Murphy. Cowley shook his head.

"No, I don't think so. Sheffield and McNeil were sighted stealing weaponry. McNeil was shot during the pursuit but the police tracked Sheffield to here."

"What about the hostage?" Bodie asked, "What do we know?"

"It's a man but no one's been able to I.D him yet, the police only got a glimpse. The only thing they know is that he's not the local minister. He's away on holiday in Scotland." Bodie nodded.

"They likely just grabbed him from the graveyard or the street."

"What do you want us to do, sir?" Murphy asked.

"Not stand around here for a start! Get over to the building over there and set up a sniper's nest. The roof faces one of the windows so you might be able to see in," he hoisted the megaphone in his hand, "I'm going to find out his demands."

It didn't take the two agents long to collect a couple of rifles and the key to the old warehouse. Soon they were set up with Bodie peering through the rifle scope at the large window and Murphy manning the radio. It was a good perch, Bodie could see the front and back of the church and part of the inside. It wasn't much, just some of the pews but every so often a shadow would flit at the corner of his line of sight. "Lucky it's a big window on this side," Murphy noted, "the other window's tiny – and there's no building."

"Hmm?"

"Bodie, are you alright? You've been…"

"What?" Murphy rolled his eyes.

"Snappy. That's the third time today you've tried to bite my head off. You've been like this for the last few days. Beside I thought you were –"

"Leave off, Murph," Bodie warned him, "Nothing's up alright? If you keep pushing it I'm going to push _you_."

"Touchy," Murphy muttered under his breath before turning his attention back to the radio.

Bodie slowed his breathing and concentrated on the view through the scope. The morning breeze had blown the fog away so now there were only tendrils that drifted aimlessly along the ground. Bodie shivered and pulled his coat closer about him. The old warehouse was draughty and it certainly wasn't helping that he wasn't moving about much. The newly sprung light breeze brought snatches of Cowley's amplified voice, "CI5… come out… talk…" There was no reply from inside the old church. He saw Cowley raise the megaphone and heard the message repeated. This time something happened. Through his rifle scope Bodie saw a man be forced up to the window until he was standing on the ledge of it. The crosshairs centred on a wild mane of curls. Bodie hesitated, sure that this must be the hostage. Then the man looked up.

"Shit!"

"What is it Bodie?"

"Shit! It's Ray!" Bodie's gaze travelled over the familiar face, the hair, the size, the broken cheekbone, even the clothes. There wasn't any mistaking it. "Their bloody hostage is Doyle!"

"What?" Murphy grabbed for the binoculars and brought them to his eyes. "Are you sure?" Bodie didn't need to answer and Murphy hissed another swear through his teeth. "He's wearing something…" Bodie peered too. A sign was hung around Doyle's neck, large, stark letters decorating it.

"SEND R/T," Bodie read aloud, "1 MAN UNARMED." For a moment both men just stood staring at the horrifying image before Bodie grabbed for the radio. "Sir! It's Ray!"

"What are you on about Bodie?" Cowley asked. Bodie took a breath and attempted to be more coherent. A hard task considering the circumstances.

"The hostage, sir, its Doyle," he managed to say slowly, not taking his eyes the bound figure in the window, "They've hung their first demands round his neck."

"What do they want man?"

"One man to bring them an R/T, sir. I'm coming down."

"Negative Bodie, I need you up there."

"Send someone else, I'm coming down."

"That was an order Bodie!" Cowley barked into the radio. Bodie just gave Murphy a look and started for the stairs.

"Wait, Bodie!" Murphy called after his retreating back, "how are you going to be any more help down there?"

"I need to get down," Bodie reiterated before breaking into a sprint.

* * *

Bodie ran across the road, his head full of images. Doyle didn't seem to have been harmed by his captors – yet – and Bodie would prefer to keep it that way. The idea of having to stay up in the warehouse with no clue as to what was transpiring between Cowley and Murdoch was an unthinkable one. He skidded round the corner and nearly ran to Jax coming the other way. He was about to elbow his way past when Jax grabbed his arm. "Is it really Doyle in there?" he asked in a worried tone. Bodie nodded and started to push on. Jax opened his mouth to ask more questions, but the Bodie's clenched jaw made him hesitate and then forgo the option entirely. Shaking his head, he hurried on with his appointed task.

"3.7," Cowley took one look at his agent and decided not to bring up his disobedience.

"What have we got?" Bodie demanded. Cowley pointed at the path leading to the church.

"A man's bringing the R/T to them; it's already set to the right frequency. Then we'll be able to get their demands. Tell me what you saw."

"What?" Bodie said, confused, "I saw Doyle, sir, what else is there to say?"

"What shape was he in? Injured? Drugged?"

"He looked lucid." and livid, he thought sourly, "He was tied up and had a gun in his back, but I couldn't see any sign of injury." Cowley switched his gaze from Bodie to the man walking up the path, his hands in the air as a sign that he wasn't a threat. Bodie could've sworn Cowley had exhaled in relief.

"Did they know where he was?" he wondered, apparently to himself. "Was he their target?"

"I don't think so, sir," Bodie replied quickly, "Doyle runs here sometimes. They probably just took him because he was in the right area. I'm going to murder him!" he added heatedly.

"I'm sure Doyle wasn't planning in being taken hostage," Cowley reminded his agent drily. Bodie glared at him.

"Don't joke sir."

Cowley didn't reply. The man with the R/T had reached the church now and stood outside the large wooden door; he glanced back towards the barricades then raised his hand and knocked on the door. Bodie watched as a small panel slid across. There was a brief exchange that neither of them could hear before the man pushed the R/T through like it was a letter. Even Cowley had to supress a smile at the absurdness of the image. They waited quietly until the man had made his way back to safety before Cowley thumbed his radio.

"Aiden Murdoch, can you hear me?"

"Mr Cowley!" the tone was friendly and calm, "I see you managed to find me after all. Shame, I was enjoying the chase."

"You could just come out Murdoch, that church isn't the best fortress in the world," Cowley said.

"Hmm, no thank you, I'd rather not be in CI5 custody. Oh, that reminds me, I believe I've got one of your men in here with me. Nice boy, he goes by the name of Doyle."

"Is he injured?" Cowley asked forcibly. There was a slight pause before Murdoch came back on the line.

With a small chuckle he said, "Nothing that a few plasters wouldn't fix… he wouldn't stop when we told him to I'm afraid…" Bodie snatched the radio from Cowley's hand, decorum completely evaporated.

"I want to speak to him. Put him on the line."

"And your name is…?" Murdoch asked pleasantly. Cowley indicated that he may as well answer the question.

"Bodie,"

"Well, Mr Bodie, if you and Mr Cowley get me what I want, I'll let you speak to your partner… not before."

"How'd you know he was…?" Bodie asked, nonplussed.

"I'm not an idiot Mr Bodie." Gently, Cowley lifted the R/T out of the young agent's hands and spoke into it.

"What are your demands?" There was a long pause and then Murdoch came back on.

"I want a fully-fuelled helicopter and four authentic passports. Since a helicopter can't land in the graveyard I want a car, also fully-fuelled, to get to the nearest place a helicopter can. That's three streets away from here, the car park. You have an hour and a quarter. After that your boy starts to lose pieces. Couple of fingers, tongue, I don't really care. I'll do it in a way that means he won't bleed to death immediately. I am I clear?"

"Yes," Cowley said, a restraining hand on Bodie's chest, "You're clear."

"Remember," came the reply, "an hour and a quarter, I'll be waiting." The static made Bodie jump as the man cut the connection. Angrily he swiped Cowley's hand away, fury burning in his blue eyes.

"Now what sir?" he demanded, "I could –" Suddenly the R/T buzzed back into life.

"Oh, and by the way, any attempt at a raid or throwing a stun grenade or anything like that will result in me shooting your boy in the head personally. Understand?" The radio fell silent for the second time. Bodie shot a homicidal look at it.

"I'll contact the minister," Cowley said.

* * *

Doyle's stomach rumbled. As he shifted position, he wished for the umpteenth time that he hadn't decided to forgo breakfast that morning. Grenade noticed his movement and growled a threat, the teeth flashing in the light. Doyle abruptly stopped moving and glared at the dog in disgust. Grenade just stared back steadily. For the hundredth time Doyle glanced around his prison with an apprising air, taking note of his situation.

He was sitting with his back to the church door inside the pulpit, his hands bound with a plastic tie behind his back. The pulpit was one of the enclosed ones, when he was sitting down it was higher than his head, cutting his sight off more effectively than a blindfold. Grenade was guarding the steps out of the box; sitting just inside so there was no way Doyle could get past. Even if he could stand faster than the dog could leap he wouldn't be able to scramble out the top. Frustrated, Doyle started hitting his head against the wood behind him, trying to think. The cuts on his shoulder and chest had finally stopped weeping but Doyle was missing his pain pills. The knife wound seemed to be throbbing now, hot and itchy, and Doyle couldn't even reach a hand up to try and relieve the pain. Finally he closed his eyes and tried to rest. That didn't work so he started trying to recite poetry in his head. Keeping your mind active was the key in these situations. It kept you alert and being alert was good. Being alert could save your life.

Gradually Doyle realised he could hear someone talking. Straining his ears he recognised Murdoch and Benedict's voices arguing. "They're not just going to stand down, boss. You know that, I know that. We should just kill 'im and run!"

"You idiot," Murdoch replied calmly, "do you not understand the concept of a hostage situation? A _hostage_ situation is when you demand something in exchange for the release for the _hostage_. The only way we stay _alive_, Benedict, is if we keep our _hostage_ alive, because the only reason that CI5 haven't thrown a couple of bombs through that window is they don't want to kill the _hostage_!" Doyle didn't catch what Benedict mumbled in response but he heard Murdoch's scathing reply. "Yes, I know what you meant. You've got to understand, our futures depend on us looking like we're willing to do a fair exchange – no, not yet. Not until they need hurrying up, alright? Good, go back to your post."

Doyle closed his eyes when he heard the footsteps approaching, feigning sleep. Rule number one: always look worse off than you are. "I know you're awake curly."

"My name's Doyle," he answered sharply, opening his eyes. Murdoch leaned on the edge of the pulpit, a small smile tugging at his lips.

"So it is."

"Then why don't you call me that?" Doyle asked as evenly as he could, barely hiding his contempt for his captor.

Murdoch chuckled softly, "Because I don't want to." Doyle turned his head away in disgust, wanting to leap up and take all of them down, to shoot this smooth bastard of a murderer between the eyes. The images of bombed out shops and dead kids who didn't understand what they were doing burned behind his eyes. Some of them were only twelve, fighting in the streets they'd grown up in because that's all they knew…

Murdoch moved around and entered the pulpit, leaning down to give Grenade a quick pat. Doyle watched him warily, trying to judge what he would do next. "What happened to your face curly?" Doyle held himself in check… just. Murdoch watched as his hostage's face tautened then relaxed and he smiled to himself. Sometimes it was too _easy_…

"None of your business."

"Well, that's a shame," Murdoch fumbled in his coat pocket for a cigarette and lit it carefully. Taking a deep drag, he crouched down in front of Doyle. "I always like a good story."

"Fuck off." The slap made his ears ring and nearly toppled him over. Doyle managed to catch his back against the rough grained wood and, blinking away the fuzz in his mind, glared at Murdoch. Blood dribbled down his chin, dripping onto his favourite green shirt.

"Now that wasn't polite," Murdoch stated quietly, "I abhor bad manners."

"I bet your mother is really proud of that," Doyle retorted thickly. Murdoch slammed a fist into the agent's ribs, Doyle nearly screamed in pain as the knife wound ignited. A foot caught him on the back. Three more blows landed before he had a chance to draw breath, one of them aimed at a very painful area. He curled up on the ground, retching weakly, unable to even think with the agony pulsing through him. A hand grasped his hair and yanked him upwards.

"You just don't know when to shut up do you?" Murdoch hissed in his ear, his voice darker and more dangerous than Doyle had ever heard before, "The only reason you are still alive, is because you are worth more that way. I swear to you Doyle, the moment you outlive your usefulness, you better hope your precious CI5 lives up to its reputation because otherwise you might not be such a pretty boy anymore." He opened his fingers, letting Doyle fall back to the floor. Without the use of his hands to stop his fall, Doyle landed painfully on his temple. Vison dimming, he heard Murdoch say cheerily; "You just stay here and be a good boy curly. I've got a few messages to…"

Everything went black.


	2. Chapter 2

**Negotiations in a Graveyard**

Part Two

* * *

Bodie sat hunched over by the radio, images and words tumbling over and over in his head, reliving memory after memory. He saw their first meeting, recalled the jokes and the banter, recreated that first moment when he'd realised that he saw Doyle as his partner – and an equal.

He re-experienced the first instant he'd felt his heart slam to a stop when it looked like Doyle was about to be swept off the mortal coil, backed up against a wall, staring down a barrel of a Walther P99. It was funny that he still remembered what type of gun it was after all these years. Bodie's knuckles had made a satisfying crunch as they connected with the thug's chin; the force had been sufficient to knock the man unconscious and left him sprawled on the ground a good metre away. Panting with the exertion and thrumming adrenaline, Bodie hadn't been able to meet his colleague's eyes, too afraid of acknowledging his emotions because their partnership was still too inexperienced, too young. The heat of Africa was still too close. He needn't have worried. Doyle had cracked a smile, seemingly unperturbed by his own close call.

"_Thought I already had a guardian angel." _

"_It must be his day off, sunshine." _

Then Doyle had shot him a wonky grin and left to go check on the other teams, leaving Bodie standing by himself, looking down at the prone figure at his feet.

It was during the clean-up of that operation that Bodie understood that he wasn't a whole anymore. He was one of a pair – a half.

And it was unthinkable that he could walk away from a mission without Doyle beside him, laughing and joking, or quiet and retrospective. Bodie didn't really care which – just as long as he was breathing. Brothers forged by the heat of the fire, living or dying side-by-side. That day had been engrained in his subconscious, marked by the huge upheaval in his personal code. Never let anyone get close to you. That motto died waiting for the gun to fire.

But what was even more surprising was encountering Doyle in the CI5 restroom later. Curled up and shaking on the sofa, he'd looked half his age, like a little kid. Bodie – genuinely thinking that Doyle had been hurt after all – had rushed in to see what was wrong. When he'd realised that it was just delayed shock Doyle had used a word that summed up the entire experience.

_Mutual. _

Without thinking, Bodie slammed his fist into the table, making the radio jump as though frightened. If this had been any other hostage situation he would know what to do; try to talk the kidnapper down, stall for time, plan a counter-attack. But somehow his brain wouldn't let him focus on anything else than the knowledge that it was Doyle in there, that it was his partner's life that hung in the balance. A wave of nauseating anger crashed down on him – they were haggling over his friend's life like he was so much meat to be argued over. Fists clenched, Bodie began pacing, glancing at the radio, waiting. The plans of the church were laid over another table, until recently he had been studying obsessively until the lines and marks had blurred and he'd been forced to push it away. Looking down at his watch, he realised with a jolt that it was almost an hour since he'd discovered that Doyle was the hostage. It felt more like a lifetime.

A sudden movement made his hand fly towards his gun. "Stand down, lad," Cowley stepped into his view, shrugging his shoulders against the biting cold.

"Well?" Bodie demanded. Cowley gave him a look and he quickly amended, "Sir."

Cowley shook his head tiredly, "No helicopters, no passports, not even a car." Bodie gaped.

"Don't they understand? Murdoch will kill him!"

"One CI5 man isn't their greatest priority, Bodie –"

"What if Doyle had been a civilian? What then?"

"I'm just telling you what they think; I don't want to lose him as much as you do." Bodie turned away, his eyes flashing dangerously.

"We get blown up and shot at for bloody Queen and Country and for what? Bloody politicians that abandon us the first chance they get!"

"Bodie…" Cowley warned. His agent ignored him, lashing out at his discarded chair. He was sized by the need to hit out and destroy something, rage obliterating any kind of rational thought. The chair smashed on the ground, the plastic cracking.

"That's it is it?" Bodie retorted, his head tilting as he delivered a vicious kick to the fallen chair, "We just wait for Murdoch to work out that he's not getting what he wants? Do we wait until Doyle starts coming back to us in bits like he said?"

"No. We stay calm, we start thinking. For God's sake man! Pull yourself together!" Cowley jabbed his finger in Bodie's face, "Doyle needs you to be logical and I need you to stop being such a prima donna!" Shame and anger vied for space on Bodie's features before he inclined his head, relenting.

"So what do we do?" he asked quietly. Cowley sighed and rubbed his forehead.

"Stall for time. We need Murdoch to believe that we are still able to trade. We could blame the helicopter being late on the fog." Bodie nodded in agreement.

"It has got thicker again, sir." He suddenly shook his head, slamming one fist against his palm. "I just can't stand waiting around like this! Murdoch could be doing anything to Ray!"

"He has to keep him alive," Cowley reminded him, "otherwise –"

The radio suddenly interrupted him, demanding that it be answered. With a quick glance at Bodie Cowley scooped it up and spoke into it. "Cowley speaking."

"Mr Cowley, where's my helicopter?" Murdoch inquired coolly. "We're running out of time."

"It's been delayed by the fog, Murdoch," Cowley lied smoothly.

"I hope it lifts soon," Murdoch remarked. "Do you have the passports?"

"On their way."

"Really, Mr Cowley? I wish I could believe you… call it my suspicious nature, Mr Cowley, but I have my doubts… but I'm sure you don't want to risk your boy's life? There's, oh, less than twenty minutes left. Would you prefer a finger first? Or an eye?"

"I want to speak to him," Cowley said levelly. Bodie glared at the radio, feeling his heart begin to pound in his chest, the blood roaring in his ears. "I need to know that he's still alive, I won't negotiate for a corpse." There was silence for over a minute and Bodie felt a rush of fear. What had they done with Doyle that meant Murdoch had to go and check if he was still breathing? There were dull footsteps chinking against the floor and then some hurried one-way words. A groan filtered through, slightly crackled by the static. Then a heavily slurred voice asked,

"Sir…?"

"Doyle, are you alright?"

"Dunno… 'm still breathing…" Bodie's stomach clenched at Doyle's laboured attempts at speaking, but even that was overshadowed by what Doyle said next. "Don't understand… head hurts… bin sick…"

"Easy laddie," Cowley said reassuringly, "It's going to be alright. Just relax."

"Where's – where's Bodie?"

"He's here." There was an intake of breath as though Doyle was going to say something else but he was abruptly cut off by Murdoch.

"As you can hear, he's fine." Bodie clenched his fists involuntarily. How could Murdoch call that fine? Doyle was in pain, pain probably cause by Murdoch. How… how dare he? At that precise moment Bodie wanted nothing more than to empty his entire clip into the Irish bastard and let him slowly bleed out…

He managed to snap himself back to the present just in time to hear Murdoch say, "Mouthy little sod isn't he?" That nearly made him go off again but one glance from Cowley warned him not to go down that route. Instead Bodie set his jaw and listened carefully to man who held his partner's life in his hands.

"Here's how it's going to work," Murdoch was saying, "You get us a car – fully fuelled – and leave it for us out back. Then you let us walk out and drive to the helicopter. Your boy comes with us, so I trust you not to leave us any surprises in the engine. What happens when we get there is completely up to you," he paused and Bodie could _hear_ the conscientious shift in his tone, "If you obey the rules then we leave your boy in the parking lot, nice and safe, barely a scratch. But if CI5 decides to cross us…"

"Then what?" Cowley asked gruffly.

"You better hope he learns to fly." The R/T cut out with a decisive hiss of static. Cowley slowly lowered the microphone onto the table. Bodie stared into the middle distance hating Murdoch with every fibre of his being.

"What do we do, sir?" he asked in a flint-hard voice. "He's got us against a wall and he knows it."

Cowley shook his head, "What are the facts, Bodie?"

"This isn't the time for twenty questions, _sir_."

"Four men, at least one trained in combat, and one hostage. Doyle sounds either drugged, or more likely in this scenario, concussed. He may not be able to help us if we do decide on a raid –"

"That's because Murdoch will have shot him already." Bodie snarled. Cowley glared at him and the young agent backed down and offered, "Sleeping gas?"

Cowley shook his head. "If Doyle has been drugged then there could be complications. They take a few moments to take effect anyway."

"And we can't exactly knock them all out with one dose," Bodie admitted, "the blond bloke would still be standing after we'd killed Ray and Sheffield." Cowley righted the damaged chair and sat in it, smoothing the church plans with his hand.

Gesturing to Bodie he said, "Go tell Leon and Benny to take over from Murphy and Jax. We've got some planning to do."

* * *

The room was spinning again.

Doyle squeezed his eyes shut against the nauseating sensation, trying to remember what exactly he and Bodie had been doing to merit such a hangover. No – wait – he was tied up and lying on a cold stone floor. He let his eyes flutter open. That wasn't where he normally woke up after a night of (possibly reluctant) pub crawling. His chest wasn't usually on fire either. Blearily, he gazed around at his surroundings. A faint unpleasant recollection unearthed itself from the recesses of his brain and Doyle winced at the memory of hard, unforgiving blows. Vaguely he recalled Cowley telling it was going to be alright…?

Finally he managed to catch the tails of his fleeting thoughts and hold them long enough to make sense of his situation. An empty anger flared in his mind as he remembered Murdoch snatching the R/T away as he'd tried to speak to Bodie. Just another turn of the screw, another taunt and humiliation to further try to degrade him. Doyle bit his lip to try and stop himself from letting the burning fury from overtaking him.

He knew that CI5 would be trying to rescue him but he also knew that Murdoch was too dangerous to let loose. The man was a terrorist with a liking for persuading patriotic kids to go kill people because they were on the wrong side; he sold criminals weapons not quite of mass destruction but any weapon could kill. Murdoch was good at that, Doyle noted disgustedly, twisting thoughts and ideals until it felt _right_ to do whatever he said to. Then he would sit back and watch the destruction that he created without even a pang of guilt.

So either way he was most likely dead.

So today was a normal day by his standards. Supressing the weird urge to laugh, he shifted himself enough to ease the numbness in his hands. It wasn't like he was a stranger to death – far from it – but he suddenly realised that he didn't want to die. Not now. Not today.

He didn't want to die when the last thing he'd said to Bodie was 'get out!'

Thinking back now, Doyle saw how petty the argument seemed. He was a grown man; he should've been able to take a bit of verbal lashing. But that was how it had flared wasn't it? Him being irritated that Bodie wouldn't leave him alone and didn't trust him to stand on his own two feet. He and Bodie both needing time to cool off and neither of them were permitting themselves any space to do it. It was a surprise that nothing had been smashed the way his temper exploded. Bodie's hurt expression shimmered into existence in his mind and Doyle felt a sting of guilt puncture his stomach. He'd settle for just one more minute to say sorry. Then another minute to say goodbye.

No, he couldn't think like that. Fighting against the smarting behind his closed eyelids, Doyle decided he wanted to live.

He wanted to be rescued.

He wanted to kill Murdoch.

He wanted the room to stop spinning.

What he was surprised to find was, at that moment, what he really wanted was a sandwich.

* * *

Someone tapped him on the shoulder. Bodie paused long enough to confirm it was Murphy before turning his attention back to the gun in his hand. "What is it Murph?"

"Cowley wants to see you." The agent donned a helmet, tension flecking his voice. Bodie noted this at the same time he saw the bullet-proof vest under his normal clothes.

"Won't that slow you down?" he said, eying the conspicuous bulk of Murphy. It looked wrong to Bodie. Murphy smiled humourlessly.

"I'd rather be a bit slow then shot in the head, thanks Bodie," he replied flatly. "I thought you were going to ask why Cowley asked for you." Bodie gave him an appraising stare.

"Why…?" he started. Murphy bit his lip.

"Just go and see him."

A horrible feeling was sloshing around in Bodie's gut by the time he reached the makeshift half-tent and saw two men in heated debate with his boss. Adjusting his features into the best mask of indifference he could manage, he strode up to them. "What's going on here?" he asked. Only an astute listener would pick up on the waspish sting that hid on the end. The man closest to him turned at the sound of his voice, his head snapping around as though yanked by an invisible force.

Suspiciously he asked Cowley, "One of yours I assume? Bodie… is it?"

Bodie jerked his head in the affirmative. "Who are you?"

"Joshua Lang, MI6," he indicated the light haired man next to him, "Isaac Swayne." Bodie immediately turned a disapproving glare on Cowley.

"What's MI6 doing here?" he demanded, ignoring the pair. Cowley returned his glare with one that would've outstared at cat.

"Willis sent us." Swayne informed him. Judging from the slip in his accent he was a Liverpudilian by birth Bodie decided absently. "MI6 want Murdoch just as much as you do."

"He's ours," Bodie said sharply. Cowley gave him a warning look but Lang continued factually,

"I believe it's your partner in there Bodie," he waved a hand towards the church, "so I suspect you are biased towards wanting him."

Bodie answered sarcastically, "Of course not."

"Alright, we all want Murdoch," Cowley quickly stepped in before the situation could come to blows, his lined face only hinting at his thoughts, "but that doesn't change the fact that it is my man in there. CI5 have it in hand and unless MI6 have a brilliant magic trick that will get my man and as many of the terrorists as possible out alive then I suggest you stay back."

"Willis said to tell you Mr Cowley that he wants Murdoch alive." Lang said briskly. He rubbed a hand through his prematurely greying hair. "Even if it requires a sacrifice. Murdoch's capture is far more important than the life of one CI5 agent." With a snarl that clawed its way through his bones Bodie swung a round-arm punch at the MI6 agent, striking him across the face. Lang stumbled backwards, blood gushing from his nose. To his credit he recovered quickly, whipping his revolver out of the holster, aiming it at Bodie. Bodie froze. Lang's eyes blazed with almost as much intensity as Bodie's own.

Swayne and Cowley broke the standoff practically simultaneously, Swayne pushed Lang's gun away from Bodie's face while Cowley pulled on Bodie's coat. Neither man's eyes left the other as they were separated. Pulling a tissue out of his expensively tailored coat, Lang jabbed an accusing finger at Bodie. "If this is your idea of discipline Mr Cowley, I expect CI5 won't last long. He should be locked up!" Bodie stepped forward menacingly, only stopped by Cowley's glare.

"Bodie, Mr Swayne, outside now." Swayne left immediately but Bodie lingered, still staring murderously at Lang. "_Now_ Bodie." With a final hunch of his shoulders the man exited the half-tent.

After making sure his agent was out of earshot Cowley turned on Lang. "Doyle's my man, understand? It is my job to look after my men. I've trained both of them; Bodie and Doyle are my best team. I don't want to lose either of them if I can help it!"

"Your job," Lang answered indistinctively, his tissue clamped to his nose, but with as much heat as possible, "is to protect Britain by any means necessary. That's your brief!"

"Aye," Cowley gave a small, terrible smile, "but my men are part of Britain. They're no good to me dead. And," his voice rose in volume, "I don't appreciate MI6 telling me how to run my own department!" Lang's lips moved soundlessly while he tried to cobble together an answer. Eventually he settled for turning on his heel and storming out of the tent.

"Swayne!" Swayne looked up at the sound of his name. Lang swept by without a backwards glance. Bodie glowered at the man's retreating back. Swayne sighed. He began to walk after him before suddenly stopping.

"I'm sorry about Lang, Mr Bodie," he said quietly. "I understand you're worried about your partner." Bodie gave a noncommittal shake of his head. "He was way out of line."

"Thanks. I'm sorry for you having to have him as a partner."

Swayne smiled tonelessly, but his grey eyes were twinkling, "Superior." Bodie winced in sympathy.

"Swayne!"

"That's me." Swayne began to follow after his boss, "I hope you get your partner back. Sounds like a great bloke."

Bodie snorted, "One of the most stubborn sods I've ever met, but I wouldn't trade him in for anyone else." Swayne grinned.

"Maybe that's what I should ask for this Christmas." With a final half wave the young man hurried after the rapidly disappearing figure.

Bodie waited in the mist until the two men were out of sight before walking back to the half-tent, blowing on his fingers.

* * *

Doyle's eyes suddenly snapped open. For a brief moment he hung in the grey-sharp world between awareness and sleep – every sense straining for answers – before memories descended like a hammer making him almost wish he was still dozing. His head still felt like someone was setting off hundreds of tiny explosions that burst in white fireworks in front of his eyes. "Like New bloody Year," he mumbled, barely aware he'd spoken aloud. How long had he been lying here? An hour? Two? He couldn't keep track of time. Flicking his tongue over his bottom lip, he wondered if he could possibly stoop to ask his captors for a drink. He was desperately thirsty and that wasn't helping his head at all.

It took Doyle a few moments to realise that he'd been woken by something out of the ordinary. Cautiously he raised his head from the floor. Hurried footsteps clinked on the stones and the general silence had been imbedded with the murmur of voices. Something was happening and Doyle was willing to bet his pension that he wasn't going to like it. Hastily he attempted to sit up and failed miserably, only making the throbbing worse. Just gets better and better, he thought bitterly. The sound of feet grew louder and Murdoch entered the pulpit, a bundle of cloth and long rag clutched in his hands. Grenade glanced up at him and whined softly. Murdoch ignored him and advanced on Doyle. "Open your mouth," he ordered. Doyle shook his head and clamped his lips together. Murdoch rolled his eyes and with the air of a man who wasn't hanging around, reached down and pinched his hostage's nose. Doyle held on for as long as possible before he was forced to suck down a lungful of oxygen. The cloth was rammed past his teeth and then secured with the rag. "Get up, we're leaving." Without waiting for Doyle to comply, he hauled him up onto his feet and began to drag him out of the pulpit. Head reeling, Doyle dug his heels in to the ground as he was pulled along. He wasn't going to make this easy for them. But Murdoch's hand was like iron around his collar, the gun cold against his skull. "Move!" They were nearly at the door now, through the small window he saw a loitering dark blue Capri. He renewed his efforts, trying to grasp CI5's plan. They weren't just going to let Murdoch and his group walk out of here were they?

At that moment the huge window exploded.

Murphy and Bodie were already firing by the time they landed in a rain of glass shards. The terrorists, on their way towards the back door of the church, were caught by surprise, Sheffield fell before he even knew he was hit. Immediately the other two hurled themselves under the wooden pews, their weapons clutched in white-knuckle grips. "Get the door!" Murphy screamed at Bodie over the barrage of gunfire. "I'll pin them down!" Bodie nodded.

"Don't you dare mess up Murph!" Crouching low, Bodie dashed along the wall of the church through a cloud of wooden splinters and bullets, his blood pumping furiously. Releasing a few haphazard shots of his own, he reached the heavy double doors and slammed the bolt open. Throwing himself back behind the final row he whispered a quick thanks to whatever divine presence had seen fit to keep him alive on that run. Jax, leading a group of three other agents, joined him and added his own expertise to the fray. The noise was almost unbearable; the high ceiling echoed the sound so it overlapped creating an eerie double music. With a signal to tell Jax that he was going back to Murphy, Bodie began to run again. He was halfway to his friend when a brown and black flash tore down the aisle, barking furiously. With an explosive uncoiling of muscles the dog crashed into Murphy, bringing him to the ground. His gun spun out of his hand and across the floor with a sound like a ghost's scream. Franticly, he brought up his arm in time to interrupt the dog's leap for his throat – instead the jaws clamped down on the arm itself. Murphy let out a shriek of pain as the teeth tore into the muscle and flung his arm to the side. Grenade connected with the wood and, yelping, released his grip. Murphy only managed a few inches towards his weapon when Grenade renewed his attack. The snapping fangs were only a few centimetres away from the agent's face, Grenade straining against Murphy's hold. Bodie took careful aim.

"Help!"

"Lie still!" Bodie ordered. Murphy shot him a glance that clearly told Bodie he was out of his mind, but tried to obey. Sweat beading along his forehead, Bodie attempted to get a clear line of fire. There wasn't enough time –

Bodie squeezed the trigger.

Grenade squealed as the bullet crushed into his flank. His hind leg crumpled under him and immediately he jerked away from Murphy, whining pitifully. With a final glance at the man who'd crippled him, he limped with surprising speed back out into the aisle, whimpering for his master – straight into the path of a bullet.

"GRENADE! You bastards!" The howl of distress came from Charlie as he watched his dog fall to the ground, dead. A pang of something (was it guilt? Or pity?) surged through Bodie at the tone of his voice, but another thought arrived in his head – this was one of the men who'd threatened Doyle. Ignoring the death that raged over his head, he hunched by Murphy, gaze drawn by the bright scarlet blood soaking through his sleeve.

"You alright?" he asked. Murphy nodded stoically, clutching his arm to his chest.

"It's not broken," he assured his friend gaspingly. Bodie nodded in response when unexpectedly his R/T buzzed in his pocket.

Snatching it up, he yelled, "What?"

"Murdoch's out back," Benny's voice was oddly distorted by the device, "he's got Doyle!"

"Shoot him!" Bodie commanded.

"Can't, I'm not good enough. Doyle's in the way. I'll hit him!" Bodie turned and shoved Murphy's gun into his uninjured hand.

"Keep those bastards pinned," he said. "I'm going after Murdoch."

* * *

Murdoch smashed the back door open, dragging his prisoner with him into the car park. Doyle was choking, Murdoch's arm was tight across his throat and the gag wasn't letting enough air into his lungs. Making sure he kept Doyle between him and the warehouse, Murdoch made for the Capri, his finger on the blued trigger of his semi-auto. Benny peered through the scope of the rifle, the crosshairs wavering over the pair. Beside him, Leon held his breath, watching the action through his binoculars. Benny's finger twitched on the trigger but he didn't fire. Murdoch ducked behind the car and yanked at the door, uttering a harsh laugh when it opened. Quickly, he shoved Doyle into the back seat. Catching his head on the edge of the door, Doyle slumped, not quite unconscious but not fully aware either. Murdoch dived into the driver's seat and twisted the key in the ignition. The engine thundered into life. "Shoot him now!" Leon cried. Benny centred the target on Murdoch's close-cropped hair. "Now!" The car lurched forwards as his finger contracted on the trigger. Doyle jerked as the window shattered above him, glass tangling in his curls. If he could have he would've yelled in alarm.

"Shit!" Benny was almost too shocked to take another shot, the bullet puncturing the boot, missing the tyres entirely. Bodie rounded the corner just in time to see the car wheel out of the car park. He snapped off one shot. It buried itself in the wall. Swearing inventively, he cast his gaze around wildly for inspiration. He spotted Leon's cherished black Ford Escort and sprinted towards it. Knowing Leon…

The door was unlocked. Bodie clambered into the driver's seat, it was a little cramped due to the slight size difference between them but Bodie didn't care. Flicking open the glove compartment, the keys almost magically appeared between his fingers like a rabbit from a magician's top hat. Ramming it into the ignition and only waiting long enough for the engine to begin its first roar, Bodie floored the accelerator.

Bodie spotted the blue Capri within a minute of starting the chase. Hurtling around the corner like a comet, Murdoch had evidently realised he was being tailed. Bodie followed him, handling the corners with a little more finesse than his prey. A savage expression sat on his feature in a way that if Doyle could see it he would've called demonically determined…

The two cars raced on through the winding streets – Bodie thanked Cowley for his foresight to evacuate the surrounding area, Murdoch would have no qualms about running over a pedestrian and Bodie wasn't sure he would manage to stop in time. Screeching around another corner he abruptly realised that Murdoch wasn't heading for the car park, instead he was going towards an abandoned circle of houses. Bodie remembered passing them on his way here. Snatching up the R/T Bodie snapped into it, "Murdoch's heading towards the old estate. I'm in pursuit."

"Bodie, wait for backup," Cowley's voice came through loud and clear. "We've subdued his two accomplices. We're coming after you. Wait until we arrive."

"Negative," Bodie answered, "Doyle won't have that long. And what _idiot_ left Murdoch the bloody keys?"

"Bodie! Listen to me!" The R/T was flung unceremoniously onto the passenger seat and Bodie's knuckles whitened on the steering wheel.

"Hang on, Ray," Bodie whispered. "I'm coming."

Locked in pursuit, the two cars roared on.

* * *

Cowley looked down at the R/T in his hand and shook it indignantly. Of all the damned fools… quickly he glanced up at pointed at a couple of handy agents, "Meadows, Lucas and Anson, you come with me." He turned and began limping out of the church, "the rest of you hold down the fort. Murphy, get that arm looked at. And Lucas," he tossed the keys towards him. The agent caught it neatly. "You're driving."

None of them mentioned the bloodstain on the floor of the pulpit.

* * *

Murdoch spun the car to a tyre-shredding halt. Wasting no time, he leapt from the driving seat and out onto the tarmacked road. Whoever was following him had dropped behind at the last corner; fighting to control the car's sudden fishtailing. Sloppy driving that. Grinning, he yanked open the rear door. Doyle was in the car's footwell, thrown forward by the sudden stop, shaking his head dizzily. It had been one hell of a ride, being flung in all directions and feeling the wind rushing through the window. Murdoch seized the scruff of his neck and tugged his captive out, letting him fall on the road as he missed his footing. Pulling Doyle upright, Murdoch forced him towards the third derelict house in the row – betting that the assumption he'd chosen the closest one would buy him some time – and fired at the lock. The door swung open on long neglected hinges. Fighting against the smaller man's sudden struggling; Murdoch backhanded Doyle in the stomach with the gun. Doyle bent over, gasping for air. Taking advantage of the momentary distraction, Murdoch pushed him inside. The door swung shut behind them.

* * *

Bodie slammed on the brakes when he saw the blue Capri. Drawing his gun, he threw himself out of the car and sprinted towards it, heart in his mouth. Both doors on the driver's side were left open. Bodie checked inside – no body (good) but no Doyle either (bad) – and cast his gaze on the circle of houses. Murdoch had made for one of them. Which one? Acutely aware of how time was ticking, but equally aware of the caution the situation dictated, Bodie moved off towards the first house.

* * *

Doyle watched apathetically as Murdoch splashed petrol around the open floor. Nothing was safe; even he had been doused with the liquid. The stink clogged up his nose and Doyle was finding it hard to think. After dragging – literally dragging – Doyle up the stairs, Murdoch had decided the best way to keep his prisoner in check while he worked was a foot to the head and had proceeded to do just that. It hadn't been enough to knock him unconscious, but it was enough to worsen the effects of his headache and make him confused. He wasn't entirely sure of what was going on. All he knew was he was sore, he couldn't feel his hands, and everything reeked of petrol. Suddenly Murdoch was behind him, wrapping his arm around Doyle's throat, a silver lighter in his hand. "Do you know who St Lawrence was, Curly? Patron saint of chefs and comedians, he was. I know what you're thinking, that's not a usual combination. Well, it'll all make sense in a minute. Do you know how he died? They tied him to a spit and roasted him to death. According to legend his last words were; "I'm well done. Turn me over!"" his breath was hot on Doyle's cheek and he chuckled softly. "He was a funny man, Curly. Just like you. Exactly like you. So I'm proposing we honour that," he proffered the lighter in his hand, "and the moment your friend who followed us here arrives, I'm going to set this place ablaze. I could get out; it'd be easy to just clamber out that window and across to the next house. He's not going to leave you in here – judging from his driving he's pretty desperate to get you back." Doyle blinked at him then gasped as the pressure on his neck increased. "And it's such a shame, Curly. I was going to let you go. If CI5 had followed my instructions you would be safe by now. But as it is… such a waste of a life."

Doyle wasn't really listening. He got the feeling the speech was supposed to scare him, but with the beatings, the car ride and petrol, Doyle had gone straight through terror and was now emerging from the other side. He'd been hauled about, abused and threatened. He was fed up. He wasn't sure why this man was telling him this. He didn't know what this was about.

All he did know was that he was getting really _irritated_.

Doyle snapped his head back, the back of his skull smashing into Murdoch's nose. It was a move the terrorist hadn't been expecting and he reeled backwards, clutching at his streaming nose. Doyle pushed up on his legs, managing by some miracle to get to his feet and started running awkwardly for the stairs. Murdoch let out a roar and lunged for him, not willing to release his one lifeline. Doyle lurched away. He teetered momentarily on the edge of the top step. Gravity won. He fell. Murdoch landed on his face, the lighter spilling out of his hand.

The room flared an intense yellow as the petrol ignited.

Doyle landed on the mouldy carpet at the foot of the stairs. He risked a look behind him. Flames ate away at the bannisters and the roof above him. Smoke billowed around the building and Doyle suddenly felt very glad he was gagged. That would filter out the smoke for – for not long actually. He began wriggling forward doggedly, a sentence rolling around in his head. The smell of smoke and petrol burnt in his lungs.

_Three breaths of smoke would knock you out. Ten would kill you. _

The heat was intense.

_Three breaths would knock you out. Ten would kill you. _

He could barely move.

_Three breaths would knock you out. Ten would kill you._

In the end the pain and lack of oxygen won out.

_Three breaths would knock you out. Ten would…_

Doyle fainted.

* * *

Bodie slammed his hand into the door of the second house. To his surprise it opened smoothly. Raising his gun, he peered inside. It looked empty. Carefully he eased his way inside and began to climb the steps to the second floor. Expecting to be shot at any moment now, he slowly raised his head over the top step, ready to pull it back if necessary.

Nothing.

"Shit," he muttered under his breath. Two houses down, ten to go. He wasn't going find Doyle at this rate… wasn't going to find him alive. Shoving that thought out of his head Bodie thundered down the steps and out into the open again. He stared at all the houses. If he was Murdoch, which one would he go for? Which one would be reachable in time but still far enough away to buy him more time? Bodie slammed his gun into his fist, anger and fear electrifying his bones. As if that was a signal, the roof of the house next to him burst into flames.

For a moment he stood, frozen in shock and bewilderment, before he tore towards the house, screaming Doyle's name at the top of his lungs. His hand closed on the doorknob, a sudden sting flaring in his wrist. Glancing down, he saw the lock had been splintered by gunfire. It was the right house. The tiniest thread of thought that said to wait for backup snapped. Covering his nose and mouth with his sleeve, Bodie crashed through the front door like an avenging angel.

The smoke was thick and black, filling every available space. Eyes streaming, Bodie squinted through the veil, seeing the flashes of flames curling across the roof and inching down the walls. Where was Doyle? Fighting his way towards where the smoke seemed thickest, a horrifying though occurred to him. His partner might already be dead – killed by the first explosion of flame. Murdoch could also be waiting in the bright orange and black chaos, ready to personally send him on a one way trip to find out whether reincarnation was true. Adrenaline spiked in his veins and Bodie sped up, the roaring of the inferno blocking out every other sound, including his own heartbeat. "Ray!" he screamed into the death trap of a house. "Ray!" Suddenly his foot struck something soft. He looked down. Doyle was stretched out on the floor, eyes shut, dried blood decorating the side of his face. Bodie crouched beside him, hands reaching out to shake his partner. "Rayrayrayrayray…" The stink of petrol hit him like a physical slap in the face and he gagged. Doyle stirred and opened his eyes. "We need to get out here," Bodie told him, "c'mon son, c'mon, c'mon. Wakey-wakey." Doyle's eyes began to slide shut again. Hauling him onto his feet, Bodie grabbed him about the waist to make sure he stayed that way. "One foot in front of the other, son. That's it, you're doin' great." Moving like a sleepwalker, Doyle obeyed, leaning into Bodie for support. Bodie turned them, ready to beat a hasty path to the exit. His eyes widened with shock. The path that he had taken was a tunnel of fire. Desperately, he looked around, trying to find another route. "We're ok, we're ok, just keep walking son. One foot in front of the other. One two, one two…" there was an unburnt doorway just behind them. Bodie made for it, praying to a God he didn't believe in. The smoke was still thick but there was a window large enough for them to fit through. Catching Doyle as he sagged, Bodie pulled them both along towards it and said into Doyle's ear, "I'm gonna get you out by the window, Ray, step up here –" Half pulling, half carrying his partner he managed to get him up onto the sink underneath. Feeding him through as gently as possible, Bodie only let go long enough for Doyle to drop to the ground. Then, without a glance backwards Bodie followed suit. The pair collapsed on the ground in front of the burning building just as the top floor fell in.

Bodie took a few deep breaths of cool air, filling his lungs with precious oxygen before turning to Doyle's aid. Loosening the gag, he heard Doyle heave and turned him on his side just in time. As soon as he finished trying to turn his stomach inside out, Doyle began gasping out, "Sorry, sorry, sorry."

"'s ok, Ray. Do you know where Murdoch is?" Bodie dug in his pocket for his Army Knife and flicked the scissors open, not really understanding what Doyle was trying to say. The plastic bindings resisted for a few seconds before breaking open. Doyle's arms sprung free like an elastic band snapping. Gritting his teeth against the rush of pins-and-needles Doyle nodded towards the house.

"In there," he said, "I think he's dead." Bodie looked up towards the flames that licked past the roof, dancing towards the heavens. A fierce swell of triumph blossomed inside his heart. Poetic justice – the arsonist bomber devoured by the flames of his own creation, brought down to morality in his own element. For a long moment neither of them moved or spoke, watching the house crumble into ashes, sparks flying around it like a halo of fireflies.

Then the wail of sirens shattered the silence.

* * *

Bodie waited outside the doors of the ambulance, watching the medics work with Doyle. Swathed in a thick red blanket and with an oxygen mask over his mouth and nose, Doyle breathed in and out with the man, who motioned with his hand – up for breathe in, down for breathe out – while another patched the gash along his temple. Bodie started copying the man, exaggerating every gasp, both hands rising and falling, palms out, his mouth open like a fish. Doyle caught the movement and cracked a huge grin, eyes twinkling. The medic glanced behind him in confusion as Doyle missed the mark. Bodie adopted an innocent expression. That made Doyle grin even wider. The driver motioned to Bodie that they were about to leave and Bodie climbed inside. As he leaned over to close the door he spotted Cowley looking at him, his head slightly tilted to side. Just before the door shut he treated his superior to a stiff nod. Both men understood the implications of the gesture.

As the ambulance began to trundle away, Cowley watched it fade into the dying mist and allowed himself a small, relieved smile. Then he turned away to talk to the firefighters and direct his agents back to the clean-up operation.

"It just seems to be a concussion – nothing serious." The solemn white-coated owl of a gentleman placed the torch back down on the table and turned to survey his patient. "I prescribe plenty of rest, no reading and an ice pack. I'll write you out a prescription for some antibiotics in case any of the wounds get infected from the petrol. Are you on any medicine already?"

"He's got pain pills," Bodie volunteered. The doctor nodded in acknowledgement.

"Someone will have to stay with him for forty eight hours."

"I'll do it. Had nothing planned anyway," Bodie shot a glance at his partner. He was very quiet.

"Right," the man said as Doyle slipped off the bed and grabbed Bodie's coat. Pride was one thing – freezing because your own jumper had been torn into tiny pieces was another. Walking them out of the A&E room, the doctor began listing the symptoms that would warrant Bodie rushing Doyle back to the hospital.

Bodie glanced over at Doyle as they made for the exit. He was hunched into himself, not talking. "What's up?" he asked. Doyle bit his lip.

"Sorry for earlier." Bodie frowned.

"What happened earlier?"

"The fight."

"Oh, yeah. No, that's my fault. I should've been a bit less… you know. I was out of line."

Doyle shook his head, "I shouldn't have snapped like that. Taking you for granted. Not a lot of people would put up with me. Thanks."

"It's what mates do," Bodie said, feeling unusually embarrassed, "besides, you're more than my mate – you're my partner. I don't want to lose you," he gifted Doyle with a smile, "not when I've got you almost trained." Doyle laughed. "And – and," he continued, "I'd be a hypocrite if I keep yelling at you for not getting backup. The Cow's going to have my head on a plate when I next see him."

"Why?" Doyle asked.

"Didn't wait for the backup."

Words exhausted, Bodie flung his arm around Doyle's shoulders and they walked out together out into the weak sunshine.

Their lives began again.

* * *

You would not believe how much research went into this story - sorry Doyle, I'll try to make it up to you.

In memory of Great Uncle Jack and the hilarious Robin Williams.


End file.
